


dear god, you have already made an atlas

by TolkienGirl



Series: All That Glitters Gold Rush!AU: The Full Series [297]
Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Angst, Fingolfin works to keep the peace, Gen, Maedhros has a neverending list of health problems, Medical Conditions, POV First Person, aka chapter 7 of 'someone who no longer is', and carry all burdens, in the aftermath of Fingon's Reveal, title from a tumblr poem by j.p.
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-08
Updated: 2020-09-08
Packaged: 2021-03-06 20:35:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,128
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26365057
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TolkienGirl/pseuds/TolkienGirl
Summary: My anger has faded; under sorrow, under hope, under urgency.
Relationships: Fingolfin | Ñolofinwë & Fingon | Findekáno, Fingolfin | Ñolofinwë & Finrod Felagund | Findaráto, Fingolfin | Ñolofinwë & Maedhros | Maitimo, Fingon | Findekáno & Maedhros | Maitimo, Fëanor | Curufinwë & Fingolfin | Ñolofinwë, Gwindor & Maedhros | Maitimo
Series: All That Glitters Gold Rush!AU: The Full Series [297]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1300685
Comments: 4
Kudos: 21





	dear god, you have already made an atlas

**Author's Note:**

> Read chapter 7 of "someone who no longer is" before this!

I have drawn close, moth and flame, to the man my brother believed me to be. The man he hated.

Yes: I almost did violence to my brother’s son.

I do not think any of them know. It is a moment of sinful inclination that I must repent of in silence. For, in the end, I held back my fists. I even spoke with civil words. Yet the sight of Celegorm beating Fingon with his fists lit a white anger in me that wrenches sickeningly, still, beneath my ribs.

Who _is_ Fingolfin, I ask myself, if he can be driven to violence by a petty quarrel between wounded boys?

Only, it was no petty quarrel, and some boys become men too early. These have.

“Finrod,” Fingon is saying. “Help me with his trousers. I need to see to his leg.”

They have levered Maedhros down on the broad bed again, and Fingon lifts him so that Finrod can roll back the loose trousers they have dressed him in for warmth. They do not leave him naked for more than an instant, arranging the trousers over his hips so as to leave only his legs exposed. I know as well as Fingon must, however, that it has been long since Maedhros was permitted a care for modesty.

He has known degradation after degradation. I must not be angry with Celegorm. This is Celegorm’s brother, and Celegorm is yet young.

I told them that anger has its place. That is has its rightful targets. I breathe deeply, and stand almost to attention for whatever my son will tell me next, remembering the truth of my own lecture as it pertains to myself.

When he is ready, Fingon rises from the bedside, and says, his face flushed with feeling, “It was my mistake—”

But then Maedhros groans and stirs, opening his eyes. I might have been wrong about modesty, for his gaze spills downwards over his body, and pain and panic leap in the tendons of his neck and shoulder. I am sorriest to see his face, just now; to see how his eyes swim with tears.

I am ashamed that I thought of myself at all, this day. There is Fingon, at his cousin’s side, his hand wrapped firmly around the slim, scarred upper arm.

There is Fingon, whole.

“Maedhros, please,” Fingon says. “I’m sorry—I should have waited until you awakened. I’m scattered, miserably scattered, and it’s my own fault.”

“No,” Maedhros says thinly. His roving eyes, shining wetly, fix at last on _mine_. I smile, close-lipped, knowing what spare comforts my face can offer him. At moments like this, I know he does not wish to see an uncle, however patiently I remain at his side. No—he looks for Feanor’s delicate features in the blunted shapes of mine. “No, it was my fault.”

“What are you remembering?” Finrod asks, low. He kneels at Maedhros’ right side, and he makes no move to touch the maimed arm that lies bandaged there. “I think it would best for us to know.”

“Only if you can, lad,” Gwindor rumbles.

“I tried to walk,” Maedhros says. “And I fell. And…” His falls silent. His brow furrows.

“A little shock to the system, then,” Finrod says, in his gentlest tone. “Nothing to worry over—Fingon will set you to rights.”

Fingon’s face is pinched with tension. I recognize his discomfort at once, and it cuts at my heart.

“Shouting,” Maedhros says timidly, after we have all given him a moment to collect himself. “There was shouting.” I never remember him being timid before this dreadful month. Even as a child—even as a youth caught red-handed at mischief—

My thoughts break away, there, for I have chosen a poor metaphor.

Fingon’s hand moves a little, lightly chafing Maedhros’ arm. “There was a ruckus, it’s true,” he says. “I told them the truth, is all. It’s done.”

Maedhros’ head snaps towards him. “You—”

“Celegorm gave my cheek a bruise,” Fingon says. His words are almost brash, but I can hear the tears in his voice. I think Finrod can, too. And Gwindor is hiding behind a scowl so dark I suspect there are tears in him, also.

Lord help us. I offer a brief prayer to my kindly love. May she hear us, and heal us, through intercession beyond my imperfect hopes.

“You can’t,” Maedhros is saying, quite desperate now. “Fingon, he’ll—they’ll—”

“No harm shall come to you or Fingon or anyone,” Gwindor bursts out. “Not in these walls. Isn’t that right, Fingolfin?”

I nod. “Maedhros, it is. You must not exert yourself. You are hurt again.”

“I’m not.” His face twitches: eyelids and jaw, and even his nostrils flare out, belying his weak feint of bravery. It’s as Gwindor warned me; there’s pain of the mind that feels like the body. He is suffering over the lost hand yet, and not merely on account of the amputation.

_I don’t know how many nails pierced it—_

“Maitimo,” Fingon says, shaking himself. “Listen to me.”

Maedhros’ face is an awful color, but he blinks at Fingon. Obedient. Fingon, not I, holds authority that can command such devotion.

I would not take it from them, that bond, though as a father, I do fear for my son and what it means to make him something like a god.

“The leg should not still feel—so sharp,” says Fingon. “If it was broken months ago. And when you fell, your right arm bore the brunt of it. I must examine both. Finrod and I were preparing you for that, by undressing you, but I think that only alarmed you more, waking so. I should have waited, as I said.”

Maedhros is silent. Then he asks, “Is Celegorm very angry?”

Finrod’s gaze meets mine. It is a signal; I must lead. Yet I wait for Fingon to answer.

“Yes,” Fingon says. “He is. But Maglor and Aredhel are with him.”

“It’s shameful,” Maedhros says at last. “It’s—it’s shameful to them. To Celegorm. He doesn’t—” But another spasm of pain overcomes him, cutting off whatever explanation he sought to make. His left hand flexes like a dying spider. I am reminded again how thickened the knuckles are, how ruined the nails.

“Enough,” Fingon commands, reaching across him to grip his right shoulder as well as his left. He grows stronger every moment, uplifted by his cause. “Enough. Here, I know you do not like the taste, but I shall give you a little willow-bark, just as soon as I’ve examined the leg.”

“Has the bone rebroken?” Finrod asks.

We none of us ask, _will he walk again?_

“I don’t know.” Fingon rises, releasing Maedhros, steps lower until he is beside the crooked thigh. It does look swollen, when compared to its emaciated companion.

Maedhros, breathing quickly, follows Fingon with his eyes. Finrod rocks back on his heels; no doubt he is growing uneasy, thrust into this unplanned role of physician’s aide, but he is not ready to depart yet. I know we cannot leave Celegorm to Aredhel’s care forever, but I do not want to flee before it is time.

I watch, therefore, as Fingon sets his hand on Maedhros’s knee. Then he says,

“This shall hurt.”

With two fingers of his hand, he prods the curve of flesh. Maedhros’ eyelids flutter. His lips sink between his teeth.

It is a long, awful moment for all of us, even those who bear no hurt themselves, before Fingon is done prodding the spot. Nor does he look pleased when he has finished.

I dread what he has found there.

“There seems to be an abscess,” he says. “Which is better than if the bone itself had become infected, but nonetheless… Damn me, I should have observed it before. I’ve looked at it often enough.” He rakes a hand through his hair. “No wonder it caused you so much pain to rest your weight on it. The pressure on the surrounding nerves…”

Maedhros stares mutely at him.

Beside me, Gwindor asks, “How does such a thing form?”

“Much internal injury and reinjury, along with a weakened constitution,” Fingon says. “Maedhros—I must ask. Was it broken more than once?”

Maedhros’ throat convulses as he swallows. The answer is written on him, as so many are. He says, “It was…I think it was badly bruised, at first. Then truly broken. And then—then it was splinted wrong.”

“Crudely?”

Flatly, Maedhros replies, “It was splinted wrong so that it would not heal properly.”

Gwindor coughs. Finrod, kneeling, gazes downward. I mourn for more innocence; a foolish thing, perhaps, but one I cannot lose sight of.

“Oh,” Fingon says. “And then?”

“That splint was removed, and we made do with what we could for another.”

“Aye,” says Gwindor encouragingly. “That we did.”

“That is certainly agitation enough,” Fingon says. “Well, then. The bone—that is one question. Let’s not think of it now. The abscess, though, should be acted upon quickly. It is a sort of infection, you see. Indeed, even before it was large enough to discern, it may have been the cause of your strange fevers and sweats as much as—as much as the healing burn.”

“Acted upon?” Maedhros asks.

I see him as he must have looked, sometimes, at _them_. I do not really wish to imagine Melkor Bauglir, society gentleman, leering down at that heart-stricken, bone-weary face.

I am too sick for anger, imagining that. Anger can make you strike. Can make you raise a weapon you later wish you had not. I know that. I have lived years of quiet repression, knowing it.

But what makes you put iron to flesh? What makes you cripple a limb, again and again? What gives you pleasure, in cruelty?

I do not know what to make of a world where my young nephew knows the answers to these questions better than I do.

“It won’t be pleasant,” Fingon says. I wonder if Maedhros knows that Fingon’s voice has become the same he uses to speak to children. I do not think it is out of pity for his cousin. I think it is out of fear, and his own pain.

My poor Fingon has been reminded thrice-over today, of how his hands must wound before they mend. My poor Fingon.

“You are going to lance it and drain it,” Maedhros says. “Very well. I suppose it had better be done now, while the—the ache of it is singing anyhow.”

“What do you think, Fingon?” Finrod asks.

But Fingon is shaking his head. “It is not a simple procedure,” he says. “I shall need a little time to prepare. And I…I don’t want to give you anything to thin your blood, Maitimo, which means no willow-bark for the pain, and I…”

Maedhros goes quiet again. I can imagine his dread. He is barely freed from the knives of his torturers, barely freed from _Fingon’s_ knife, before he must undergo the blade again.

“You may have whomever you like to hold you,” Fingon murmurs.

“Do you mean, to hold me down?” Maedhros asks, with a questioning flick of his brows.

It is Fingon’s turn to be quiet.

“Celegorm,” Maedhros mutters, avoiding Fingon’s gaze. “I choose Celegorm.”

I can feel the change in the wind, which that name portends. I follow the wind, and in that moment, I do not allow Fingon his flash of hurt, confusion, relief—of whatever he is brave and kind and boyish enough to feel. I step forward into the space of their bond, and I say,

“In the meantime, then, Finrod and I should return to the fort at large. We will make certain that everyone is peaceable towards one another, and we will carry whatever messages and requests you have.” I pause, and I smile, as long and as gently as I can, at my son and my nephew.

 _They are such friends_ , my brother said, and though he mocked, he was not lying.

I add, at length, “I don’t hear any more shouting. That bodes well, surely. Gwindor, you’ll stay here to assist Fingon, won’t you?”

Gwindor, of course, agrees.

Finrod is already on his feet, and then at my side as we make soft farewells and depart. I know that he is still more readily generous with practical offerings than with those that draw on sensibility. I do not begrudge him—or them—anything.

My anger has faded; under sorrow, under hope, under urgency.

For urgency is all around us; it is in more than Maedhros’ leg, more than the hollow gleam in his eyes. More than Finrod’s reticence, and Fingon’s perennially bruised ideals.

All their hurts must be mine to carry, so that none of them fall again.


End file.
